


The Prefects’ Bathroom

by lizardspots



Category: Harry Potter - J.K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-15
Updated: 2003-07-15
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardspots/pseuds/lizardspots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get when you have two unsuspecting Prefects from different Houses ending up in a jacuzzi with scented bubblebath? Slash, of course!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prefects’ Bathroom

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally archived at [Ink Stained Fingers](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Ink_Stained_Fingers), which was created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact me using the e-mail address at the [Ink Stained Fingers collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/InkStainedFingers/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:** This idea just struck me one day, so I thought I might take a crack at it. Thanks to my beta Jazel for getting rid of some of the little mistakes I didn’t spot. Enjoy!

The Prefects' Bathroom

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Ron couldn't help but beam goofily at the pristine, white-tiled splendour before him. Weasley, my man, you have made it big. He stepped into the huge room and shut the door behind him, when the saccharine tones of a mechanical female voice resounded from all corners of the room.

"Good evening, Mr Weasley, and welcome to the Prefects' Bathroom." Ron yelped in surprise and swept his gaze around the room, looking for the source of the sound. Only when he was sure that there was in fact no woman there to spy on him did his heart stop pounding in his chest, his face turning bright red in embarrassment even though there was no one there to see him. The voice continued,

"If you wish to use the lavatory, please use your wand to press one."

A pink, flowery scented cloud suddenly materialised before Ron's eyes in the shape of a number one. Ron stared at it in fascination.

"If you wish to view our wide selection of aromatic oils and bubble baths, please press two." Pale green smoke wreathed in a circle around the pink number one before coalescing into a two next to it.

"If you wish to take our guided tour, please press three." Ron hurriedly dug into his robe pocket and touched the powder blue number three with his wand.

"You have selected number three. Please place any unneeded personal items into the trolley provided." An over-polished wooden box glided on its little brass wheels towards him, and he cautiously dumped his school bag into it. The little wooden trolley zoomed off, leaving the scent of perfumed beeswax in its wake.

Suddenly, Ron felt himself being lifted an inch off the floor. He let out a strangled shriek and waved his arms about to try and steady himself.

"What the - ?!" Fuck, he was moving, gliding over the floor. The stupid woman's voice echoed around the room again.

"Please do not be alarmed, Mr Weasley. We at the Prefects' Bathroom are here to ensure your every comfort and convenience."

"Convenience, my arse! Let me - "

The voice interrupted him, "On your left, you can see the Shaving room." Was it him, or did the voice sound mildly pissed off? "Here, you may choose from our varied selection of razors, foam, aftershave and deodorants to suit your personal preferences."

Ron self-consciously stroked his completely hairless chin, a sudden thought coming into his head. There were boys at Hogwarts who shaved?! He felt stupid that the thought had never occurred to him. He'd seen Charlie and Bill shave countless numbers of times at the Burrow when they had been of school age, so they must have had to shave at Hogwarts, right? Percy being the prissy prat that he was had never been unshaven in anyone's presence. It had occurred to Ron on many an occasion whether Percy even had body hair. Ron idly wondered if the standard boys' toilets had a Shaving Room. If there was, he was either unbelievably unobservant, or it was magically invisible to the younger boys. But what if you were prematurely adolescent and needed to shave at a younger age than others? Would the room appear - ?

"On your right, you can see the Shower Room. Ideal for when you are short of time but still need to cleanse." Ron was glided over to a smoky glass door which opened to allow him a peek inside. "We have a choice of three different speeds of shower regimes, the 5 minute shower, the 1 minute shower, and the 10 second shower." Ron's eyes bugged out at the thought of being whizzed through a shower at such startling speed. He must try that one some time...

"Next on the left, you can see our state of the art Bathing Room, featuring therapeutic jets of hot water to soothe muscles, a jacuzzi to accommodate upto four people at a time - " Ron snorted at this, " - and a voice-activated temperature adjuster. We also have over a hundred different types of aromatic oils, soaps, and bubblebaths to suit your every need."

"On your next right is the Drying Room. Warning, Mr Weasley." The mechanical voice somehow managed to sound ominous. "This is only to be used when one must be completely dry in approximately 20 seconds." A stainless steel door with "Drying Room" etched onto the front opened and a blast of hot dry air pummelled Ron in the face, almost gliding him across the room at breakneck speed. He squinted and caught a glimpse of what looked like a giant tumble dryer lined with pillows. The door slammed closed. Ron sighed in relief.

Right, I'm never going in there, he told himself.

"On your final left is the Lavatory. We at the Prefects' Bathroom pride ourselves on this particular room." Ron couldn't help but be curious. "Magically charmed to allow one to complete one's business in whatever surroundings one wishes. Just state your request out loud clearly, and the room will change to a summer meadow, a busy high street, or even a classroom." Ron burst out laughing at this last one, a sudden image of himself 'completing his business' in Snape's Potions lesson unable to be shaken out of his mind.

"Lastly, on your right is the Final Touches Boutique." Ron wrinkled his nose. Boutiques were for girls, he wasn't going near that room if his life depended on it. "Equipped with sentient mirrors on all sides to advise you on the best way to look as perfect as one can be. Also features a Hair and Make-Up expert to add those final touches." The mechanical voice turned unnaturally jubilant at those last two words. Suddenly, Ron was gliding backwards at high speed back at the entrance to the bathroom, where he was finally (and thankfully) lowered to the floor. Feeling a little unsteady on his legs, Ron grabbed onto the side of the little wooden trolley that had suddenly materialised before him out of thin air. He reached in for his school bag and placed it on the floor.

"Thank you for taking our guided tour, Mr Weasley. If you require any further assistance, do not hesitate to call. Enjoy your stay!" With that, the echoing and infinitely annoying female voice disappeared.

That has got to be the most surreal experience of my life, thought Ron. After a minute of contemplation, he broke out of his daze and picked up his school bag, heading for the Bathing Room.

* * *

Draco walked along the corridor to the Prefects' Bathroom with a decided swagger to his hips. He had just spent the last half an hour supervising a first year Hufflepuff as they carried out their detention - sweeping and cleaning his dorm. Without magic. He particularly savoured the moment when he 'accidentally' charmed the hapless boy's broom to swat him viciously on the arse every time he bent over to pick something from the floor.

Draco grinned. Ah, happy days. But right now he didn't have time to think about imbecilic first years. He had a date with Pansy in an hour and he needed to look sharp.

As little as the prospect of Pansy and himself partaking of a romantic moonlight picnic by the lake thrilled him, that wasn't going to dissuade him from taking a bath. Cleanliness was next to Perfection, and Perfection was his middle name.

Stepping into the bathroom, he nonchalantly dumped his school bag into the trolley that had whizzed up to his side. Right on cue, the insipid dulcet tones of a woman began,

"Welcome to - "

"Oh, shut up, Beatrice" Draco drawled. "I've been coming here for over three years, I don't need a sodding introduction every time."

'Beatrice' harrumphed and muttered, "Enjoy your stay" in a disgruntled mechanical fashion and faded away, a distinct echo of "Wanker" bouncing off the walls of the room. Draco narrowed his eyes, but nonetheless said nothing. After a moment's thought, he strolled over to the Shaving Room, idly thumbing his cheek. Yup, definitely needed a shave. Pansy always hated it when he shaved, saying she liked him to be all stubbly and 'manly'. Manly be damned. He didn't give a shit about being manly; stubble made him itch like hell.

Standing in front of the giant mirror in the shaving room, Draco snapped his fingers and murmured, "Clothes". At once, his school robes, uniform and underwear were whisked off him to be replaced with a pale green towel wrapped securely around his waist. He snapped his fingers again and made his selection of razor and foam from the thirty-odd various types laid out for him on the edge of the smooth marble sink. The other products vanished and the sink filled with lukewarm water. Smirking at himself in the mirror, Draco began his daily ritual of shaving.

He would never admit it to anyone, but he had always found self-grooming a highly satisfying pastime. There was something almost sensual about the way a shining silver razor blade slides over one's skin, leaving it smooth and clean and fragrant. And baths! Oh, he could write sonnets about bathing, if one gave him the opportunity and a guarantee that he wouldn't embarrass himself.

Having finished shaving, and spent a time admiring his smooth-chinned reflection in the mirror, Draco snapped his fingers once again and muttered, "Time."

'Beatrice' returned, seemingly more cheerful as she said in a bubbly tone, "The time now is 7:41 pm."

Draco thought for a second. A jacuzzi, that's what he needed. A nice relaxing laze in bubbling hot water. Now, what bubblebath should he use? Perhaps the strawberry, or how about the apple and cinnamon? He walked out of the Shaving Room to the door on his right.

"Beatrice, I think I'll try the lime and - WEASLEY!!"

**"MALFOY!"**

Draco stared in horror at the image of a redheaded Gryffindor, a wet and naked redheaded Gryffindor sitting in clear waist-high gurgling water. Ron swept his darkened damp hair out of his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Draco closed his eyes in irritation. "What does it sodding well look like I'm doing here? I'm naked save for a towel, for god's sake, and I'm here to take a bath." He spied Ron's eyes widen at this. What? Did the pillock think that he never bathed? What kind of imbecilic brain cells did these Weasleys breed? All of their genes must have been used to maintain that crazy red hair of theirs with none to spare for actual intelligence.

"But - but - I'm using the bath!"

"Well done for noticing, Weasel. Now, if you don't mind removing your impoverished freckled arse out of here, I'd like to use the jacuzzi."

"I'm not moving!"

Draco mentally debated between the two options he had facing him. Getting into a bath with a stark-naked Weasley, or going on a date with Pansy Parkinson stinking like a polecat. "Fine, whatever. But I'm not getting out of here until I have my bath, so budge over."

Ron stared in absolute shock as Draco abandoned his towel and slipped, serpent-like, into the clear water, schooling his features into an expression of indifference and habitual smugness and managing not to blush.

After all, it wasn't every day you stripped in front of your worst enemy's sidekick.

As he settled himself in the water and draped an arm along the side of the tub, Draco couldn't help but think what his father would say at the sight of his son fraternising with a Gryffindor. A poor, muggle-loving Gryffindor at that. He smirked inwardly in triumph. As much as he loved Daddy Dearest, the thought of shocking him so completely certainly had its good points. Being a Malfoy was decidedly boring, what with all that self-control and cool arrogance that one must be saturated in. He was a horny teenager, for crying out loud - he needed to get his thrills from somewhere.

* * *

Was it him, or had the jacuzzi that could "accommodate upto four people" suddenly shrink in size? I guess having a Malfoy threaten to share your bath does make you get a little claustrophobic, thought Ron in apprehension. He watched as Malfoy moved smoothly into the water, naked as the day he was born and as cool as you please. And no matter how hard he tried, he just had to shut his eyes, though he did catch a glimpse a triangle of blond curly hair and his... well, you know, that thing. Well, it wasn't so much a glimpse as a rather short glance, or perhaps a slightly prolonged glance seeing as he now had a very clear image of the exact shade of those blond curls...

Ron blinked and furiously told himself to snap out of his filthy-minded daze. What the fuck was he doing thinking about Malfoy's pubic hair? He saw enough of pubic hair at home - being the youngest of six brothers certainly introduced one to the birds and the bees a lot sooner than you would think. Or want, come to that. But then why was he all hot and bothered now? He'd seen all of his brothers naked at some point in his life. He'd seen Ginny naked. Heck, he'd even seen Harry naked, though that had been entirely by accident - he knew now never to go looking for his best friend in the showers immediately after a long, tiresome, and sweaty Quidditch match. No sir-ee. And anyway, that didn't explain why a naked Malfoy was infinitely more disturbing than a naked Harry...

Damn it! There he was, thinking about naked people again. People did not reminisce about their best friend in such a way. Unless they were attracted to them (which he most definitely wasn't), or jealous of them (which he...). Well, he guessed he was sometimes a tad jealous of Harry. It was kind of difficult, what with the snazzy scar and the heroics and the favouritism and the hordes of girls that obviously fancied him but didn't have the guts to say. Harry, the brainless git, didn't notice them at all - you'd think he were blind or something! Or... maybe Ron noticed all the people who fancied Harry because nobody fancied him...

Suddenly Ron was angry with himself. What was he doing spoiling his first time in a jacuzzi with thoughts of Harry? He was Prefect now, wasn't he? He didn't see Harry with a shiny gold and red badge pinned to his robes. Ron had got this privilege entirely on his own merit, not some quotient of fame handed to him on a plate as the little redheaded friend of the Boy Who Had The Luck Of The Devil. This bathroom was his domain, and he was going to enjoy it even if it killed him. Even if he had to spend the next hour with a rather hostile, and very naked - bollocks, not again! - blond Slytherin.

Before he could stop himself, Ron stole a look at the boy opposite him. God, look at his skin. It's so white... so smooth. Like marble or ice. Or cream. Yum. But probably like cream he was delicious on the outside, but full of rotten calories on the inside and would make you feel ill if you ate too much. I bet Malfoy was made Prefect only because his oh-so-rich-and-smarmy Daddy pulled a few strings, thought Ron smugly. Or threatened to pull Snape's arm off if his little baby wasn't made Prefect, more like.

Shit, now he was feeling sorry for Snape of all people. Next time he came into this bathroom, he was bloody well locking the door. Too much naked cream - sorry, naked Malfoy - was very bad for your indigestion.

Another glance, a wobbly image of the thing through the clear water -

Right, I have got to sort this out once and for all. Time for the bubblebath.

* * *

Draco opened his eyes, annoyed with the sounds of Ron swishing and turning through the water. He'd just been having a rather interesting daydream involving - well, his concentration was broken now. Stupid Weasel. Stupid bloody poor muggle-loving -

What the fuck is he doing? Why is he getting up? Do not blush. Do not blush. He's just a Gryffindor. So what if he's stretching out from the water, his muscles elegant and stream-lined, rivulets of water sliding down his glowing freckled skin, droplets of water clinging to his back...

Don't look at his arse! Gryffindor arse equals bad. As nice as it is, do not look at it. Do not - Jesus Christ, he's got goose bumps all over him. And that fine line of reddish blond hairs going down his back, like a great sodding arrow pointing south. He may as well have a sign on his head saying, "Look at my rear. Isn't it gorgeous?"

Oh, fuck. Never mind the rear, it's the front Draco was more worried about. Go on, just a little bit more, stretch a bit more, can't quite see his...

Damn. Damn, damn, damn, shit, bugger, crap and bollocks. Draco had a hard on. A bloody hard on - here, of all places. In the jacuzzi. With Weasley in front of him; because of Weasley in front of him.

This evening was just getting better and better.

Draco quickly draped his arm vaguely over his crotch area, praying and hoping beyond hope that Weasley would remain his usual unobservant self for just this once. The rippling water began to settle as Ron sat back in the water, his tatty, scratched wand held delicately in his long fingers. Draco stared as Ron just sat there, his brow furrowed in concentration - Fat chance of any useful thoughts coming out of that brain, Draco thought maliciously - and a slightly nervous look on his blushing face.

"Erm... _cough_... Malfoy, could you - well, um, could - how do I get bubblebath?"

Draco lifted both his eyebrows, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible babble that Weasley had just addressed him with.

"What in Merlin's wrinkled arse are you going on about?" he asked in bewildered exasperation, his normally admirable cool fraying at the edges as his... problem seemed to grow. Literally.

The carrot-headed fool blinked.

"Err... you know, bubblebath. How do I get the freaky woman's voice to turn up so that I can get some bubblebath for our - I mean, for this jacuzzi?"

Draco smirked automatically, an image of a bubble-coated Weasel coming to his mind.

"Wouldn't you like to know..."

He was about to open his mouth to deliver the customary insult, when it occurred to him that having bubblebath might not be such a bad thing, seeing as his little problem was likely getting more visible by the minute. He cleared his throat hurriedly, cursing himself for sounding at a disadvantage in front of the Gryffindor.

"Why... ah... oh. Just click your fingers and call Beatrice."

Weasley's eyes first widened in confusion, then a deeper shade of red washed over his face. Draco thought for a second, then grinned in unabashed malevolent amusement.

"You don't know how to click your fingers, do you?"

Weasley somehow managed to turn an even darker shade of red, his white teeth startling in contrast as they emerged to bite his lower lip. His long brown lashes swept down to hide his eyes.

Crap, thought Draco. A shy, blushing Weasley isn't doing my problem any good, no matter how amusing the sight is - just sodding well call the woman for him.

"Oi, Beatrice, you slut. I know you've been watching us, so you may as well say something. Boy Weasel here wants bubblebath."

Beatrice's cheerful voice echoed from an unknown source, sounding perfectly innocent. A little too innocent.

"I hope you are enjoying your bath together, Messrs Weasley and Malfoy. Mr. Weasley, would you like to try our Tester Taster Pot to choose your preferred product?"

Draco frowned at the 'bathing together' allusion, knowing it for the spiteful dig that it was. Bitch.

He watched as Weasley examined the small Tester Taster Pot that appeared in the palm of his hand, reading the instructions on the label with that delightfully diligent look on his face.

Draco metaphorically slapped himself round the head. Delightful?! Weasel had never been delightful at anything in his life. God damn it, what had gotten into him today? He wasn't usually this bad at hiding his attraction to the redhead. In fact, Draco prided himself on his excellent handling of the 'Weasel Dilemma', as he liked to term it. Ever since third year when adolescence and hormones had kicked in, Draco had been unaccountably struck by the sheer beauty of the boy in front of him.

The pale skin dotted with light orange. The cute nose that just begged to be kissed. Those big, innocent-as-a-lamb eyes, big and bluish green. Gorgeous colour; he had a shirt at home that would exactly match those eyes, actually. And that figure...hmm...

Oh, but the hair! Draco metaphorically wrinkled his nose - bright colours really weren't his thing. But somehow it suited Ron down to a tee. Especially when he was angry; which was very often, courtesy of yours truly. Those eyes of his would kind of flare up when Draco pissed him off, like someone had lit a fire in his head. His red hair veritably stood on end and his face would flush, making those freckles disappear in the heat. His pretty white teeth would appear as his lips parted roughly in a snarl.

He was just... electric when he was like that. Pure energy radiating from him, shoulders trembling slightly with emotion, just so alive and... beautiful.

He remembered the exact moment he'd seen Ron like that. Not just seen, but truly seen him. Their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson with that buffoon games keeper, wasn't it? There he was, next to Pothead and the bushy-haired Mudblood, and Potter had been looking at him and trying to insult him. Idiotic bothersome little shit - as if he could compete with his superior wit and intellect. Hah. But what really annoyed him was that Weasley was standing there, fairly crackling with pent-up rage, and all on behalf of Potter.

What was he doing getting angry like that when Draco wasn't even insulting him? Weasley was ten times more interesting than Pothead, what right did he have to be crackling with rage on the side lines?

And thus began the obsession. A very well-hidden one, but an obsession none-the-less. From then on, every time Draco was in the vicinity of Potter and Co., he always made sure to address a hand-picked insult to Weasley. Granted, there wasn't much you could say about him, bar his poverty and stupidity, but that was enough. Just enough to make him almost catch fire.

Gorgeous.

And Pothead thinking Draco was only concerned with him, the arrogant arsehole. As if he was even half as interesting as Weasley. Besides, he didn't want to wank in the bath to the image of a pissed-off Potter...

What? he said to his alter-ego inner voice. He could wank to whatever he sodding well liked. He really didn't give a toss that Weasley was a guy. He bet every boy in the world wanked to the image of another bloke at least once in his life. Didn't they? Who was to know, anyway? Aside from his father, who could read minds as well as he could think up novel tortures. But like he said, every bloke had a quotient of homosexuality in his blood. And besides, his Dad was one of the campest men he knew, and he'd be damned if he hadn't at least indulged in a spot of sodomy when he was young. Almost all the Death Eaters were men, right? Well, they had to do something when they got bored of hurting people...

Draco quickly left that train of thought to wilt in his inactive imagination. There were some things you really didn't want to think about; and Death Eater orgies were definitely one of them.

He suddenly focussed on his surroundings, slightly shocked to find that Weasley was delicately licking the end of his forefinger with an expression of... well. He supposed that edible bubblebath would be a treat to someone as poor as Weasel. But Draco completely forgot to voice the jibe his mind had concocted, completely stricken by the image of Weasley's eyes closed in pure pleasure at the taste and sucking his finger and... God.

Now there was an image he would be wanking to in the future.

Oh piss off! he told his irritatingly obnoxious inner voice. So what if Weasley was a guy? Did it really matter? The boy was naked in front of him. And naked body equals turned-on Draco. Big deal. He was only human, after all. An exceptionally smart and good-looking human, yes, but human none-the-less. He recognised an attractive specimen when he saw one, same way he noticed that almost all of his teachers were ugly, as were all the girls in Slytherin. Particularly Pansy Parkinson. But he couldn't very well turn her down, now could he? Ugly self-obsessed bitch that she was, he'd be damned if he went out with anyone who wasn't in Slytherin and his equal in status. And he'd be double damned if he went out with a guy in public. He wasn't gay or anything. Then again, he wasn't really straight, either. He hesitated to call himself bisexual - that label stank too much of sex-obsessed laziness, in his mind. Not that he wasn't sex-obsessed. He prided himself on his virility. Grrr.

Too bad he had to hide it from everyone. But that's what Malfoys did, right? They make out that they're completely stone cold and untouchable, even if they're pretty normal inside. He guessed that's why he had fallen for a redheaded Gryffindor.

No, he corrected himself quickly. Not fallen, just become obsessed.

All that passion and rage and electricity that emanated from Weasley. He admired it, he really did. Sometimes, Draco wondered what it'd be like if he didn't have to be all stone cold, if he didn't have to always remember to uphold the family honour like every other guy in Slytherin. If he just let loose all his emotions like Weasley did so often with such enthusiastic lucidity. Maybe he'd be electric then. Maybe he'd be allowed to live...

Suddenly, Draco felt something soft touch the skin on his stomach. He looked down to find that the entire surface of the water in the tub had been completely covered in lime and orange scented bubblebath.

That was what I had been about to pick, thought Draco quizzically.

He must have moved or made a noise, for Weasley looked up at him and parted his lips nervously.

"You - you don't mind if I pick this one, do you? I'll change it if you want."

That must have been what made him flip. He couldn't really account it to anything else. A wave of anger just rushed through him. Why the fuck was Weasley being so nice to him? Why wasn't he trembling in fear, or anger, or anything? He was Draco Malfoy, people weren't meant to be polite to him. No one was ever polite to him. Wary, yes. Cowering, of course. Pissed off, all too often. But never nice.

He couldn't deal with that. It was too much effort. He didn't want to see Weasley with a calm innocent look on his face. He wanted to see the electricity, the energy, the red-faced anger. That he could deal with. That he could come face to face with and give as good as he got. But this...

"Look, I don't care what fucking bubblebath you use. I don't care. I'm only here to have a bath so I can bugger off on a date later on."

Weasley flinched. Just a tiny bit. Not enough.

"Why don't you just eat all the soap products in this entire room. I'm sure it tastes better than the pig shit you eat at home."

Weasley's brows lowered as he frowned in irritation. Come on, Draco, you can do better than this.

"Actually, go ahead and eat it all. I guess no one in your idiotic muggle-loving family told you that soap is actually poisonous if you have too much."

Not such a good insult, but at least he got the muggle-loving bit in there.

"Ronald Weasley, redheaded pillock, unloved by all who knew him. Completely shit at Quidditch, stupid enough to think that he mattered to anyone."

Oooh, that must have hurt. Weasley was definitely looking angry now.

"Go on, poison yourself. No one would really care. And what better way to die, eating in a jacuzzi - must be absolute heaven to your poverty-stricken eyes - "

The Weasel managed to splutter, "No one would care?! Look who's talking, you ferret-faced little arse! At least I have some friends, unlike you - you with your brainless goons either side of you wherever you go." The impudent bastard had the temerity to smirk in self-satisfaction. No one ever smirked at Draco Malfoy! Oh, that did it, he was really going to have to teach him a lesson.

"Yeah? Well at least I have the one thing you'll never be able to have. Respect. Oh, you think your so-called friends respect you, do you? Why would they want to respect a poor, stupid, ugly misfit like you? What on earth have you got to recommend yourself? How can you even compare yourself to me? You think Potter's your friend? And Granger?"

Draco's mouth seemed to be on auto pilot. The only thought going through his head was, Make him angry. Make him rage. Don't let him be nice and make you vulnerable. You're a Malfoy, this is what makes you tick. Insult him, go on, do your worst.

"You'll never be their equal, Weasel. You can delude yourself all you want, make yourself believe that you're important to them. But you're not, are you? Tell me, in all of these heroic escapades you've been embroiled in every sodding year, what did you contribute? The brains? The bravery? What did you do? What do you ever do when you're with them? Nothing, that's what. You just follow like a little puppy dog, hoping for a little treat, a little bit of recognition. The ultimate sidekick."

Weasley was even redder in the face than he'd ever seen him before, looking just about ready to grab Draco's throat. His eyes were wide open and shining with unadulterated fury.

This is good, thought Draco determinedly. This is what you want. Even as his heart was thumping in his chest - from exhilaration or something else, he wasn't sure - he managed to produce the most nonchalant expression he could muster. With deliberate unconcern, he made patterns in the foam, then looked at his bubble-coated fingers for a second before licking them clean.

Then he laughed in the cruellest way he could. Because that's what Malfoys do.

* * *

Hold it back. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

Ron tried his best to ignore the tightness in his throat and that horrible aching burning feeling behind his eyes. God, what had he been thinking? He couldn't afford to forget what Malfoy was really like. But for a second there, he had looked really - well, human, he guessed. Relaxed and normal, not all mean and cold and closed off. Then again, the guy had been staring at him rather strangely for a bit. He should have realised there was nothing but rotten bloody-minded shittiness in that heart of his. Damn himself for letting his guard down.

And damn him for letting Malfoy get to him with those insults. Why couldn't he be smart enough and quick enough, just once, and be able to give as good as he got? Harry could do it, hands down. So could Hermione. But him? No. He just let the insults pummel him, while he got angrier and angrier until he felt he might burst and...

Nothing. He couldn't do anything. No comeback. Zilch. Nada.

Malfoy was right. He couldn't believe he was admitting this, but he was bloody well right. He was stupid - the fact that he was about to cry attested to that. He was ugly and poor. He was the charity case, the one people felt sorry for and gave a little attention just to make them feel better, then left and completely forgot about them. That was his life. No wonder Harry always ignored him whenever they were off on some adventure. What did he know? He was stupid, right? And besides, he always managed to end up in the hospital wing after one of Harry's heroics. Because he was stupid and always managed to hurt himself.

Malfoy was right. He was fucking right. He was the sidekick. Heck, even in his own family he was unremarkable. Bill was cool. Charlie was devoted to his dragons. Percy was the smart perfectionist. Fred and George were funny and popular. Ginny was a girl, and that was enough to make her unique in the Weasley family. But him? What was he? Just another redheaded freckle-faced Gryffindor boy. Nothing special.

Damn it! The burning in Ron's eyes was getting worse. He really shouldn't let Malfoy think that he had the upper hand. Okay, so he did have the upper hand, but he could still try, right? Sort of like a game. He didn't have Harry or Hermione to hide behind, though - he had to think up something himself. Right.

Run. That's what he would do. Cowardly or not, it would be better than bursting into tears right there in front of Malfoy. Oh, the Slytherin'd have a field day if that happened. Go telling all his little Slytherin lackeys how he managed to make little Ron Weasley blubber like a baby, just with a stream of verbal abuse.

Think, brain, think! God, he felt like just screaming out loud, he was so frustrated. Why couldn't he think of anything to say? To do? And the bastard was laughing even louder now. Ron would bet that Malfoy could tell just how upset he was, even though he hadn't even looked up from examining his thin white fingers.

And to think that just a few minutes ago, Ron had been admiring that smooth white skin...

Suddenly, Ron experienced a revelation. An epiphany of sorts, he guessed. In Malfoy's eyes, he was absolutely worthless. He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. Oh, sure, Malfoy insulted him once in a while, but really, it was probably only for practice. Like a Beater practicing hitting bludgers by swatting at flies in his spare time. Ron the pesky fly, that's what he was. Malfoy didn't care. Ron's worst enemy didn't give a shit about what he thought. With Harry it was different; the animosity was so clear, you could grab it and put it in a jar. But with him? He wasn't worth the effort.

Why won't my eyes stop hurting?! Ron thought in aggravation. Maybe if he closed them for a bit so all the blinding white tiles wouldn't glare so much... Shit. Okay, bad idea to close your eyes when they're full of tears. Ah, well, he'd better steel himself against the flood of jibes to come.

* * *

Draco watched the stream of emotions blossom over Weasley's beautiful, expressive face. Except now it wasn't expressive. He just looked totally blank. Dead. Like all his feelings had been drained out of him suddenly. But Draco knew that Weasley wasn't totally emotionless - he could see a lone tear slide down the pale freckled cheek when he squeezed his eyes shut.

Draco couldn't help it, but his heart lurched. God, that was just too creepy. Unnatural. He hadn't meant for Weasley to look like that. Where was the anger, the rage, the bloody fucking unadulterated passion? Sure, he wanted that. But not this stultifying dead look.

He hated that look. He saw it too often. On the faces of his fellow Slytherins when they think it's safe to let their guard down. He sometimes saw it on his mother's face. He saw it every single fucking day when he looked at himself honestly in the mirror. When he decided to let all the ingrained arrogance go and see what was left behind. That was what he saw - a shell of a person with nothing warm and human in it.

Despite his arrogance and superciliousness, Draco was fully aware of what he was. He was just another unpleasant Slytherin, steeped in family tradition, born merely for the purpose of carrying the family name and its overwhelming wealth on to his own future son.

Yup, that was him in a nutshell - Draco Malfoy, sole heir of Lucius Malfoy. Nothing else. Not Draco Malfoy, member of Slytherin House, who had a detrimental weakness for strawberries and chocolate; who wasn't as fond of Quidditch as people thought; who despite what his behaviour suggested, did have some semblance of a heart inside him; who didn't get the same kick out of being mean as his father did; who had suffered a silly little crush on a certain redheaded Gryffindor for the past two and a half years...

And that certain redheaded Gryffindor, the bastard - he had none of those responsibilities. He didn't have to be constantly upholding family honour - the Weasleys were dirt-cheap muggle-lovers anyway, he thought with false defiance. And Ron Weasley himself - he had no obligations to anyone. He didn't have to be cold and calm all the time, he didn't have to be heroic and brave like Potter, he didn't have to be the smartest in the year like the Mudblood Granger. He could just be... himself. Totally, freely, gloriously himself.

God, sometimes Draco was so envious of that freedom, he felt almost physically sick.

But envious or not, he refused to deny himself the pleasure of watching Weasley from afar. He refused to be the cause of that completely dead look on the redhead's face. As long as he was flushed and angry and alive, then that was fine. But not this. God, what had he done?

Draco had to fix it. He had to show Weasley that he wasn't an empty shell like Draco was. He was beautiful and wonderful and gorgeous and electric and any other adjectives he could think of. And even as his body seemed to move through the water of its own accord, he realised that what he was thinking totally contradicting what he had just said to the redhead.

And he didn't give a fuck.

* * *

Ron didn't notice the approach of the blond Slytherin until he was within a couple of inches of touching his skin. Ron hurriedly scrubbed at his eyes with his wet hand in embarrassment, damning himself for being such an emotional pillock. But when he looked up, the expression on Malfoy's face was... indescribable.

Ron's first thought was, Shit, he's damn good-looking when he's like that.

Then he thought, I really shouldn't be admiring my worst enemy's appearance, seeing as he's just told me I'm less worthwhile than a puddle of dog piss. And especially seeing as he's a guy, and in Slytherin, and God he's graceful, and definitely his enemy, yup definitely. Mustn't think about him like that.

But then there was a quick flurry of movement, and Malfoy was getting close to him and suddenly those elegant white fingered hands were holding his face and fuck, those lips that were usually sneering at him were now all soft and delicate and only a miniscule distance from his own and...

Ron's eyes widened in shock. He raised his hands in panic, ready to push the Slytherin git off him any moment. Just... mmm... any moment now... if he could just think clearly for a second. If Malfoy's lips weren't so bloody perfect and soft and wonderful when pressed hard against his mouth with such consummate determination and... Oh God, he felt something hot and moist on his mouth and it felt so damn good he couldn't stop himself...

Ron settled his wet hands, still dangling vaguely in the air, to rest on Malfoy's shoulders. He'd never realised how thin the guy was. Kind of girlish when you think about it. Except he didn't feel like thinking right now, and Malfoy was no girl, he was a guy.

He was a guy. Shit, what was he doing? What was Malfoy doing?

And then Ron felt Malfoy shiver, just a tiny bit, and he suddenly realised exactly what he was doing.

With what seemed like superhuman strength, Ron gripped Malfoy's slim shoulders with bruising force and pushed him away. The blond first looked at him in pain and dazed confusion, then annoyance at being pushed off, then bewilderment and finally settling on white-faced shock.

The boys looked at each other, completely stunned, stark naked and sitting in a jacuzzi of now tepid water. Malfoy looked on the verge of a nervous melt down. Ron gathered what little wits he had left and tried to say something, anything.

"I..."

That sound must have snapped Malfoy out of his stupor, for he swiftly realised he was still holding onto Ron's face. He dropped his hands quickly and looked up at the redhead with what could only be described as a little-boy-lost look.

"Ron..."

The shock of hearing his first name being spoken, by Malfoy of all people, was just too bizarre and uncomfortable to process in his mind. Strong hot panic started wending its way through Ron's system like wildfire.

He had to get out of here, Ron thought. He had to get out NOW. Oh, crap, but he was naked! He couldn't get out like that - he was certain he had a semi hard on, and that was not the sort of thing you let your worst enemy see, even if said worst enemy had just snogged you in a jacuzzi. Fuck, how did he get that freaky woman's voice to get him a towel? What was her name again?

"Betty, no... Bee... Beatrice!" Ron finally managed in a strangled voice. "I... my... towel... I need..."

Beatrice must have read his mind (or possibly been spying them) for without a word, a pale blue towel appeared in front of Ron, and some unknown source of magic lifted him out of the water and whisked the towel around his waist at lightning speed, thankfully hiding his little problem before Malfoy could see it. At least, he hoped so.

Ron was still a little dizzy when he was set back on his feet on the steps leading up to the jacuzzi, but he didn't care. Malfoy was still looking at him with that uncharacteristically confused and vulnerable look on his face. He didn't have time to let his head stop feeling woozy.

Grabbing together his belongings, he fairly galloped out of the door, not daring to look back at Malfoy who was still sitting silently in the water. At the bathroom's main door, Ron threw off the towel, pulled on his trousers and robes without bothering to put on his underwear, and stuffing the rest of his clothes in his bag, he legged it out of there as fast as his shoeless feet could bear to carry him over the rough stone floor.

He ran and ran and ran all the way to Gryffindor Tower, swearing occasionally when he stepped on something sharp along the way. Finally he made it to the Fat Lady's painting, panting out the password and leaping through the hole into the Gryffindor Common Room. The few people lounging around on the armchairs looked up in surprise as they saw a flash of wet-haired, bare-chested Weasley with his robes hanging open speed past them to the stairs leading up to the dorms.

Finally wrenching open the correct door, he was infinitely annoyed to find Neville sitting innocently on his bed reading some godawful looking book about subtropical venomous shrubs or something equally dull. Ron was even more annoyed when Neville had the temerity to ask if he was feeling alright.

No I am not sodding well alright, he felt like yelling. But even if he wanted to say it, Ron's verbal abilities had seemingly shut down for the night, for all that emerged was an undecipherable squeak.

He flopped down onto his bed, ignoring the fact that he was lying on top of one of his books.

Shit, he thought. Shitty shit shit. I cannot believe what happened in that bathroom was true. Please let it be a dream, just some evil twisted dream that he'd wake up from in a moment and then thank whatever deity lives up in the sky that it was only a dream.

A persistent and steadily more painful headache began to burn behind his eyeballs as his thoughts went round and round in circles.

He and Malfoy had shared a jacuzzi. They had been within inches of each other. Stark naked. Stark buggering naked. He had been nice to Malfoy. Malfoy had kissed him. And Ron had fucking well kissed him back.

The last thought echoed in his head like some demonic mantra, getting steadily louder and more taunting as his headache got worse. God, what would Harry say? And Hermione? Never mind the fact that Malfoy was a bloke. But it was Draco Malfoy -one of the shittiest Slytherins and Ron's worst enemy. And they had kissed. Malfoy had kissed him and Ron had kissed him back. Kissed. Him. Back. He could just imagine everyone in Gryffindor House pointing at him and laughing.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. G-R-O-P-I-N-G.

Ron and Draco sitting in a tree. F-U-C-

* * *

Draco did eventually get to his date with Pansy, although he was half an hour late and most definitely not in the mood for a moonlight picnic. Pansy assumed that the hard work of being a Prefect must be taking its toll, and surreptitiously made sure to snuggle up to him extra close just to make him feel better. This was not appreciated, unfortunately, and the date ended a lot earlier than Pansy would have liked.

The next time the redhead and the blond saw each other was in Potions. Both of them tried to ignore the other, but Draco was by far the more successful - he had a lifetime of experience in the business of ignoring people. Ron, however hard he tried, was still unable to prevent his eyes from searching for the Slytherin now and again. Harry and Hermione mistook Ron's intense looks at Draco for his usual anger and disregarded, though Hermione (being the intelligent girl that she was) did wonder why Ron was so much more voluble when voicing the many and varied tortures he would like visited upon Draco.

It didn't occur to either boy to use 'The Kiss' as fodder for gossip and getting back at each other, for a incriminating as it was, they couldn't tell anyone about it without losing face. And besides, Ron enjoyed a perverse sort of pleasure in knowing that Draco had let his guard down in front of him. But the fact that the 'lowering of the guard' involved kissing him, well... Ron didn't much like thinking about that, because it brought up too many issues that he wasn't prepared to face at that point in time, and so he tried to forget the incident as best he could; and he was largely successful - Weasleys may not be exceptionally crafty, but they sure had determination when they needed it.

As for Draco, he continued as he usually did - taunting the Trio whenever the opportunity arose, playing tricks on them, and generally being his usual pain in the arse.

Only when he was alone in his room, or in the shower, did he think what might have happened if Ron hadn't panicked and run away from him when they'd kissed. If he'd actually stayed for more and...

What? A guy could dream, right?

**THE END**  
  
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